Cold Person Novels & Stories

This wasn’t the time or place for such thoughts, but I found myself lost in his appearance, struggling to take in enough air. “Since you want to know so badly, sure, why not.” He arched his brows, but his eyes were devoid of any emotion. He was still mad at me, and that only made the pit in my stomach worse. “The cold room is more of a dungeon, used to keep stubborn wolves in line. It's dark, freezing, and filled with ice. Even the strongest warrior of this pack wouldn’t last a week in there,” he retorted casually, as if he wasn’t talking about human lives.

I watched him leave with pursed lips, wondering why he was so nice when he worked under someone as beastly as Alpha Xavier. "I'm surprised to see Fryster talking so excitedly to you earlier. Are you guys acquaintances?" I heard Kate's Iow whisper in my ears and I turned around to look at her. "What do you mean?" I asked, feeling confused. "You don't know? Fryster doesn't talk to people. He's always very quiet and he's called the second coldest man in this company. Almost everyone is scared of him in this company," Kate explained.

Just great. He doesn’t stay long just enough time to make my heart beat like it’s trying to break out of my chest. When he leaves, Marcus leans back and says, “You’ll get used to that.” “Used to what?” I ask. Marcus grins. “The ice-cold aura. Don’t take it personally. He’s like that with everyone.” Emma snorts. “I think it’s in his contract. No unnecessary warmth allowed.” I laugh, but it’s a nervous laugh. Because, sure, maybe he’s like that with everyone, but there’s something about the way his eyes passed over me like he was reading a page in a book he wasn’t sure was worth finishing that makes me want to prove him wrong.

“Come one love! Just live a little, will you? Bran is okay with Shone and Sylvia. Besides, he's now a big boy and now he doesn't cry anyhow. I nod in understanding. I'm sleepy and I know Bran will be well taken care of, even if I sleep for three hours. He's not hungry since I've already fed him. I call Sylvia to inform her that I'm going to take a nap and that they should take care of my baby. They both assure me that he'll be okay and I walk up the stairs with Jeff in hot pursuit. Once in the bedroom, I slump on the bed and pull the quilt over. Despite it being day time, it's winter over here and it's extremely cold. All I need is to stay warm. My husband does the same and hurdles himself c

“How close did you get to him?” “I would tell you the rest of it, but you would probably pass out.” I joke with her. “Let's just say that the expression 'cold as death itself' stems from him. The man feels like a human popsicle.” “Oh. My. Gawd. You touched him?! Is he hot?” I nod and she squeals.

Something human. It began with a small detail she noticed during a file review. A personal note, almost hidden in the margins of a strategic report, referencing a foundation Kane supported quietly, one that focused on education for underprivileged children. Elena frowned slightly, intrigued. Kane’s public persona was one of ruthless efficiency, yet here was evidence of empathy—or at least, a private moral compass. The discovery sparked a curiosity she couldn’t ignore.

I cradled my daughter's lifeless body, the pain embedded so deep that I could not even find the tears to cry. The doctor's words haunted me. "If only you'd been ten minutes earlier, maybe she could've been saved." Out of nowhere, my wife Sheila Chapman's call broke through, my hands shaking as I picked up. "Hey, Tristan, it's just you and the kiddo for dinner tonight. I can't make it back. Jeff's down with a nasty fever, hit thirty-nine degrees. It's pretty bad."

The cold is no longer just his. It’s changed. A new quality to it, a texture. It’s not the clean, empty cold of a ghost anymore. It’s a… sticky cold. A clinging, invasive chill that doesn’t just sit on my skin, it presses in. Like frost on a windowpane, but inside out.

I asked. Qing Han still held my gaze. “It was just a few bottles,” he said, as if it wasn’t a big deal. My eyes moved to the trash can in the room, and I sighed deeply. “Is that your definition of a few bottles?” I asked. The trash can was filled with so many bottles of alcohol that there wasn't any more space left. He groaned a little. I wasn’t sure if he was actually in pain or just exaggerating everything. I brought my hand to his forehead. He was sweaty, and his temperature was a bit high, but it wasn’t anything to cause major alarm.

The air became warm. Not hot. Comfortably warm. Like standing beneath early morning sunlight. Then... Something stepped out of the mist. Not fully. Just enough for Grayson to see movement. A massive paw. Silver fur. Claws larger than daggers. The ground cracked beneath its weight. Another step. The hooded followers lowered their heads even further. One of them began quietly weeping. The Prophet whispered a single sentence. "Welcome home..." Inside the Temple... The heartbeat suddenly stopped. Complete silence followed.